Reveal
by DK2005
Summary: Set post-Great Game. John Watson's P.O.V. After that incident at the pool, John wasn't sure whether it was Moriarty or his detective friend who affected him more. WARNING: Slash. Random OOC-ness. Also, I'm new to the fandom & I haven't written for 4 years


_**REVEAL**_

**_Two weeks ago. _**

This wasn't supposed to happen.

This was _never_ supposed to happen.

But –at the risk of sounding like a walking cliché - there was no mistaking the memories of what just happened.

The slightly sore spot in my rib where the vest was.

I shifted in my seat and gazed out the window.

The lingering paranoia of invisible snipers – _hate anything resembling red dots._

The leathery smell of the backseat of the cab didn't do anything to erase the memories of the chlorine smell from the pool – _no more swimming in public pools it seems. _

But worst of all was Moriarty's voice ringing in my ears – that arrogant, artificially comedic tone, all irritating, all distracting, like one of those poppy tunes you can't get out of your head. Only this one is different. Everything about it is..._very wrong_.

"_Wrong day to die."_

So he said, his words clearly embedded in my head.

I looked around, squeezed my eyes shut for a bit, trying to shake Moriarty out of my system, but nothing seemed to work.

Then my eyes caught _him_.

There he was, my friend, just sitting there, all darkly-mysterious-upright-collar-high-cheekbones persona.

_How can you look so damned calm?_

How could he just switch off what just happened to return to his eternal thinking mode?

_Bloody hell..._

For a minute there, I forgot who I was sitting in the cab with. He was _Sherlock_. And I was simply...

"John."

Sherlock's deep voice broke the silence and I looked up almost instantly.

_Anything. Anything to focus on right now._

"Hm?"

His eyes were still in that investigative mode, with a slight frown directed at me.

"You've been awfully quiet."

Well, this is a surprise. This was the man who wouldn't share a cab with me because he demanded absolute silence to _think_.

Then again, nothing about Sherlock Holmes surprised me anymore.

"Oh, you know, didn't want to interrupt your thinking and all."

Trying to sound calm and collected only shifted my attention to my own racing heart accompanied with morbid thoughts about what could have happened...like being blown to pieces or shot through the face by Moriarty and his accessories.

_And maybe even abit cold towards him._

No. Damn it.

_John Watson, calm the hell down._

I shut my eyes instinctively and then cursed myself for it because Sherlock obviously noticed.

"Just…making sure you're alright."

Sherlock Holmes doesn't say things like "just making sure you're alright."

Everything's feeling somewhat out of character.

_This…_

This wasn't supposed to happen. Moriarty, tonight, the whole thing.

And now after what felt like eternity, here we are back again in a cab together.

"I am. I told you at the pool earlier."

He shifted back to his usual thinking mode. Guess he wanted his quiet back.

_Did I upset him?_

"Sherl..."

"Left here, please."

What?

My friend just ordered the cab driver to stop _not_ at 221B Baker Street. Which, knowing him, wouldn't have been a big surprise – he's stop anywhere he wants when he's hot on a case. But after all the crap that had happened tonight I thought all he wanted to do was go home.

To _our_ home.

Clearly I was the only one with that brilliant idea.

The cab stopped.

"Where..." I started, but Sherlock had opened the door on his side.

"Supper," he said, glancing at me while paying the fare – accentuating the word.

"You look like you could use some distraction," he said again, deciding for me. Sometimes I hate how he figures me out while still concentrating on solving a major case – like nibbling on a side dish while enjoying the main meal.

Actually, a light meal didn't sound like a bad idea.

"And something to eat," all of a sudden he was right in my face, and his hand fleetingly brushed past my arm, like something sort of between "let's go" and "you're alright."

He was right again. Damn it.

"Right."

Half-dragging myself out of he cab, I followed him towards one of those Chinese places that's still open at ungodly hours of the night.

Supper was brief and quiet…but didn't change a thing. Sherlock spent most of his time playing with his chopsticks, indicating his frantic train of thought.

The cab drive home wasn't any better. The flickering lights outside the window brought back images of red sniper dots.

I shifted around uncomfortably again, only this time it was because I felt my friend stealing glances at me.

Sherlock was watching me…checking on me. Was he thinking that I was supposed to still be in some state of shock after what happened in the pool? Had he forgotten I was in the army?

This felt strange. There was something floating about between us in the back of a cab. This_ thing_.

This was _uncomfortable_.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"John."

"Sherlock."

We started at exactly the same moment.

"You first."

"No, you go ahead."

Sherlock settled to his usual quiet, but I could feel he was somewhat uneasy – his lips were about to form a word but his eyes were spilling more, his blue irises frantically darting around.

"John, I…"

The cab stopped. My friend cut off his sentence, again leaving a trail of heavy thoughts in the air.

Once again he took care of the fare, but this time something was different.

He grabbed my arm, not tight, but enough to lead me out of my state.

Shaking off my curiosity, I followed him out.

_From one kind of darkness to another, almost. _

We stopped out the front of the door, and I felt that familiar pounding again, uneasy, uncomfortable.

The need for some sort of…_distraction_.

"You were saying…"

Sherlock dropped my arm and wanted to look at me straight in the face, but he was somewhat struggling.

"Yeah, erm…about tonight…"

He was scrambling for words like he did at the pool.

"I'm sorry…about…Moriarty, I…the whole thing…I'm sorry,"

Oh.

I shrugged, looking in the general above direction.

"Oh well, I suppose even _you_ couldn't have known…" was all I managed to say.

My friend seemed strange tonight. A different kind of strange.

"I think….also, what…I was trying to say was…"

I looked up at him again…and he stepped closer.

"…I'm glad you're alright," his trembling voice gradually eased into the usual low monotone.

That was somewhat…nice.

"Yeah, well, I've had better nights, but I'm…alright…"

"No, I meant it, I'm really really glad you're alright…" The words rolled out of him like an overflowing dam.

His hands followed, and they went up to reach the corner of my shoulders, almost shaking.

_I need to be distracted._

"Sh…"

Next thing I knew, my friend moved his face close to mine and kissed me in earnest.

Not just a fleeting touch of the lips, but a solid, insistent kiss.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But somehow_ I_ let it.

**_Ten days ago._**

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But it happened again.

Four days later I found myself waking up to nothing but the sound of the streets outside, which made for a very non-typical morning.

My housemate Sherlock was many things. Quiet isn't typically one of them.

He'd make a mess, cause damage, start a fight, or at the very least produce some sort of noise.

_Or snog his best friend._

That reminded me again.

_We haven't really, properly talked about that. _

I got up, preparing myself for what's to come and walked down to the main room.

"Sherlock."

Somehow I've always been itching to see if he'd made any progress with the whole Moriarty business.

So when I found him quietly typing away on a laptop – _my_ laptop – I had to suss him out.

"That's my la…"

"What time is it?" he asked without even turning to look at me.

Of course.

"I don't know, why don't you take a quick glance at the corner of your screen, which is, oh…right in front of you?"

"Can't. Too busy."

And there was nothing in the room but the faint tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

That familiar air from four days ago started to creep up again.

I'm starting to hate this. It's well…annoying.

Images from that night filled my head again…only this time it was what my friend did to me at the front of the house.

_Although the fact that it was pushing out the bit that happened at the pool felt somewhat pleasant._

The only thing that stood out was Sherlock's repeated sentences, "I'm just glad you're alright,"…over and over again. When the morning after came, that was all he could explain.

"I just needed to…to check…that it was all real. That _you_ were for real."

That was that, but I couldn't shake off how something was still – hanging around. There was something I needed to be sure of.

Do I want to talk about it?

_Or do I want him to do it again?_

So I can be sure. But be sure of what?

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But it did.

I need a distraction.

Right now.

Walking over and snatching my laptop off him seemed like a good idea. A new blog entry would probably do me some good. He could well bugger off and use his own bloody laptop.

So I did.

Except this time Sherlock had a _reaction_.

"John!" He jerked up, his eyes following my hands holding the device.

His eyes darkened all of a sudden, his deep voice blaring across the room.

"Well, go and get your own!" I snapped.

This is really annoying. What's with him today?

_What's with me today?_

"No, you don't understand!"

Of course I don't. I sighed in exasperation, and looked up again. "Sherlock, this may come as a surprise for you, but no, _most_ people don't understand."

My friend's eyes squinted slightly, like he was intrigued, disturbed.

Or _hurt_?

I really didn't mean to be like that. But I didn't know how else to act.

Turning around, I rushed over to the armchair on the other side of the lounge room.

Didn't want to look at him in the eye.

Sherlock didn't say anything more, but I could feel him eyeing me from across the room.

And then I saw my laptop screen…and part of me sank.

The web browser was still open showing Sherlock's website contact page. His inbox had one new message, and it was a grainy picture of me in the bomb vest from four days ago. I had no idea when Moriarty had the time to take a snap of me four days ago, or maybe it was from a CCTV camera.

On the bottom, a short message.

"_Next time, I'm going to be even more naughty."_

This…

I turned to Sherlock. He had a look in his eyes that I wasn't familiar with.

"I didn't want you to see that," his voice as low as a whisper, guilt and regret laced all over each word.

This…_he_…

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But I cracked.

"What, just like how you didn't want me to know about you keeping the USB with the missile plans?"

I couldn't remember when I raised my voice. It just did.

"John…"

"And your secret meeting with Moriarty, four days ago, the one that nearly got me blown up?"

He flinched at the last part of my sentence, gazed around him, sighed uncomfortably, before he stepped towards me…towards the laptop.

"John, you misunderstood."

No, I didn't.

"I was going to…"

"I don't want to hear it!" Don't explain, Sherlock.

Just let me be angry. _I needed the distraction._

"John, give me the laptop."

"No."

He pushed past and reached over me.

"Get off!"

With surprising speed and force, he slid past my arm and grabbed hold of one side of the laptop. I stood up reflexively, batting his hand away.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The laptop almost fell, but we both caught it. I quickly set it on the coffee table.

"What's your problem, then?"

I don't know. All I know is I want to administer great force upon him.

Pushing Sherlock aside, I grabbed him by the collars and pinned him against the nearest wall. Staring dead straight into his mischievous blue irises that suddenly seem so irritating, something was cooking up deep inside me.

"Listen, you thoughtless, self-absorbed…machine! Four days ago, you had a secret meeting with some criminal mastermind…who strapped me with a bomb vest…ready to kill us both!"

Sherlock was shaking his head, his hands grabbing at my wrists.

"Was that fun for you?"

And then you kissed me. The whole thing was like a…

"You get to play your exciting little games?"

Was _that_ fun for you too?

"And then this, what, did you two exchange numbers, planning to catch up later?"

"No, no, no, no…..John, you got it wrong…,"his voice was upset, but he was still making the effort to stay calm. "I was just figuring out if it was any indication of anything…"

My grip tightened up a notch.

"…but no, it was just a message he sent for fun. A sick joke. Whatever."

Clearly he didn't want any of us to forget.

"Knowing him, it's too soon…"

Too soon. And my decision to punch him in the face was probably too soon too.

I hated how he spoke about him like he was some sort of…acquaintance.

I hated having Moriarty between us.

I hated having this _thing_ between us.

To my surprise, Sherlock got up and pushed me back, all the way down until I hit the couch and lost balance. He was still shouting when we both hit the floor hard.

"John, listen to me!"

He managed to land a sharp hit with the side of his fist on my chin.

"_I'm glad you're alright." _

He said those words four days ago, before he kissed me.

Before I lost control of the situation.

"Sherlock, get off me!"

"John, I need you to listen to me…"

I tried to shove him aside.

"John, I need you…"

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Sherlock froze. A harsh frown was forming on his face, his piercing eyes fixed at me. He steadied his weight over me while defending himself from my rabid, blind manoeuvres.

The thing between us crept up again. I didn't like this…

I needed…

"John, look at me!"

His face was only centimetres away from me. Images from four days ago outside the house came in a surge.

My friend's white, cold face pressed against mine.

My friend's mouth _all over_ mine.

"Sh…"

In one sudden turn of event, Sherlock pressed against me, hard. Next thing I knew, his mouth engulfed my words, stopping me from everything. I couldn't even think.

Or make sense of what was happening.

_No._

I wasn't about to let him get away with it this time.

I kicked him aside, and rolled off the carpet.

"Aw!"

He always forgets how much stronger I can be in certain situations. Straddling him on both sides, forcing my weight down on him, I grabbed hold of his wrists and pulled them above his head.

"What. Was. That. For," I hissed out each word, willing them to stab through him.

"I couldn't get through to you", he argued, like it was supposed to make sense. His long legs jerked around, trying to break free. He knew he had the advantage of height to slip out of my grip, but I pressed down harder, my face now so close to his, I felt like even my eyes were trying to pin him down.

And that was when my head went blank. Something that's been boiling inside me broke itself out.

_I need a distraction._

I wanted to do what he did to me, and screw around with his head. So when I planted my mouth on him, he had to struggle just a bit more to breathe.

I wanted to show him that I was okay, that I was stronger than he thought. In every way. So when I straddled him tighter between my legs, I could feel those bony hips wiggling to break free just a bit more.

I wanted to…to…_hurt_ him. Almost.

Next thing I knew, I found my teeth grazing the skin of his neck.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But somehow, it did.

**_One week ago._**

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But I found myself in that building next to 221B Baker Street in the end.

Or at least what was left of it anyway.

The crime scene hasn't been cleaned up all that much in the past week, I supposed investigation was still continuing.

It was getting dark, and with street lighting I couldn't see much more than structural rubble with red markers here and there.

I wasn't exactly sure why I decided to survey this area, but I didn't have any shifts tonight and it was on the way home, so I thought why not.

Sherlock didn't look like he was on it lately, or if he did, he didn't seem to plan to share his findings with me anytime soon.

Hating to admit that this partly had to do with what happened three days ago, I approached the perimeter, stepping over the red tapes.

"_Next time, I'm going to be even more naughty."_

Who knows I might be able to find something, some seemingly insignificant detail that even my friend overlooked that would turn out to be just the thing to crack the case, or track down Moriarty.

What was I thinking?

Far-fetched was an understatement.

The smell of concrete surrounded me from multiple directions.

Someone like Moriarty wouldn't have left anything behind - nothing traceable, anyway- obviously. But then again, this is Moriarty we're talking about.

"_Why does anyone do anything? Because they're bored."_

Images from the pool crept up again. And that photo of me bomb-strapped sent to Sherlock's inbox three days ago.

_I need to be distracted._

Stepping carefully past the entrance, climbing over a pile of random objects I brushed off the irritating thoughts.

John Watson, exactly _what_ are you doing? What are you hoping to find?

I kept walking, diving into the dark.

_Maybe if it's dark enough I wouldn't be able to see my own thoughts. _

I reached into my pocket and took out a small torch.

Not that it made that much difference, but I got a glimpse of the general area.

Heavy damage, the ceiling above half-collapsed, walls partly gone, partly peeled off. Empty spaces and holes where there should be structure.

The bomb was designed for localised damage.

But enough to give Sherlock a rather violent wake-up call in the next building.

And me if I wasn't staying over at Sarah's that night.

Bloody Moriarty.

_Bloody Sherlock._

Stepping slowly, I traced along what was left of the walls and peered further in. I could hardly see anything, and there was only so much area that my tiny torch could cover. Crumpling and scratching sounds filled the darkness as the bottom of my shoes grind against unknown objects on the floor.

What is it exactly that I'm looking for?

I reached out, feeling around. Ripped plasters, dusty surfaces and…

"Aw!"

A metal hook was sticking out of one of the broken walls and grazed one of my fingers.

Reflexively, I drew my finger to my mouth, tasting blood.

I tasted blood three days ago.

Only it wasn't mine.

"_John, listen to me!"_

My friend's voice lingered in my brain, images from the lounge room and outside the house resurfaced.

I sucked on the cut harder.

I couldn't remember how long Sherlock and I spent on the carpet, in that stupid…fight. We've never been that physical. Not that raw or rough, anyway.

Pressuring, restraining, trying to silence each other…and, friction, there was so much friction.

Images of Sherlock writhing underneath me, groaning, when I…

I…

_Sherlock…_

A faint thud from the distance brought me back.

Lifting my torch up, I followed the direction of the sound. Nothing but more rubble and cracked foundations.

Another cracking noise.

This time I moved a bit quicker. I could vaguely make out a turn into what was left of a corridor. I followed the bend further.

A dark corner. And a pile of more random objects. Stepping closer, with my torch directed at it, I could make out a few bits and pieces. A piece of wood that looked like the leg of a chair. Part of what looked like a belt.

Could there be something in there?

Squatting down, I took a closer look.

I wondered if…

Then a streak of concrete dust poured down my shoulders. I jerked aside and look up, but before I could search whatever was on top with my torch, a loud creaking noise cut everything out. Loud thuds and clattering sounds filled around me, and I felt something heavy falling next to me.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

_John Watson, why are you such a bloody idiot? _

One week ago I escaped death that was arranged by someone else. Now I was practically offering myself _to_ it.

Obviously, the building was unstable. I had to actually be _inside_ it before I realised how serious it was. Rolling up the map of the building in my head, I tried to step away from the collapsing rubble, while finding my way back out.

But more noises emerged. Bits and pieces followed suit, and in the dark I could feel half of the building crushing down.

Rapidly moving my torch around, I managed to avoid what felt like a foundation pole next to me.

I could just make out the exit, when a large piece of the ceiling – I believed that was what it was - dropped in front of me. I jumped to the side, avoiding it, and lost my balance.

"Oh, shit!"

That was when I realised what I fell _on_.

Glass. Large, sharp pieces of glass jutting out from a pile on the floor. My torch fell off and rolled somewhere where it was tricky to reach.

Great. This is just _great_.

I heard myself groan as I felt sizeable shards digging into my skin. Burning sensation filled my left arm, and a small area on my left thigh.

Cracking sounds continued behind me. I forced myself to get up, bearing the pain, my torch nowhere to be found.

_This wasn't supposed to happen. _

But it was real.

Gritting my teeth, I stumbled across, trying to find my way out.

Except I could hardly see anything.

It was darker than when I first came in.

Darker than a week ago. When I was strapped with a…

"_John…!"_

"_Are you alright?"_ My friend's worried voice popped out of nowhere.

He sounded so _worried_.

No!

I don't want to remember that again.

_Concentrate_, John.

Just try to get the hell out of here.

Another banging sound. This time louder still.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock's all too familiar voice broke through the destruction. It was way too loud to just be in my head.

"Sherlock?"

_Thud._

"Where are …"

Before I could work out where he was, I felt strong arms hauled me up, and half-dragged me through the dark.

With one swift movement, he flung my right arm around his neck and wrapped his left arm around my waist. I could feel my friend's tall, solid figure pressed against me, the tail of his coat shoving past my leg.

"John! Can you walk?"

It took me awhile to form words.

"Yeah."

Sherlock didn't stop when we got just outside the building, he continued pulling me towards 221B, not caring when we both bumped into scattered rubbles and markers.

Last thing I remembered was the door slamming behind us.

Then everything went blurry, and the next thing I knew I was sitting on the couch of our living room.

"What in the bloody hell were you doing in there, John?" Sherlock's low, frustrated voice interrogated me just as he helped pull out the last bit of glass off my arm. I finished off all the necessary first-aid administrations – not knowing how to even begin to answer his question.

I squeezed my eyes shut involuntarily.

"You'd better get that checked out later," he added. His words somewhat drew my attention to the lingering smell of antiseptics in the room.

"Sherlock, I'm fine, I can do that myself, I'm a doctor, remember?"

My friend put away all the first aid kit after cleaning off all the bloody cloths and bandage off cuts from the table.

It was somewhat unnerving seeing him being so…well, _caring_.

And it started off something inside me again, not exactly like last week or three days ago, but…

"Seriously, what were you thinking?" he said again, and whatever was cooking up inside me twisted further.

"Clearly, I wasn't," was all I could say. How original.

Sherlock sat down next to me, pale blue irises darted around, nervously shooting glances at me.

Oh, _hell_.

"I was looking for something…I just didn't know what." Then something hit me. "How did you know I was there?"

My friend's eyes closed for a few seconds. "I followed you there."

What?

"Your behaviour's been intriguing me for the past few weeks, John…"

"_John, l need you to listen to me!"_

"I wasn't completely sure how to approach the subject…"

"_John, look at me!"_

"So I just…followed you. I was on the way home anyway and saw you walking into that building."

I've never been more relieved about being followed.

By _him_.

Silence overcame us for what felt like forever. There was that unfamiliar air building up from last week and three days ago.

"Thank you." I finally said, shrugging it off. Forming words was suddenly a bit tricky. Sherlock nodded and turned away.

And then I caught a fading bruise on his neck…where my teeth were three days ago.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

"We…you wouldn't have found anything there. I'd concluded as much." Even in situations like this he had to show how clever he was. "That message on my website didn't mean anything either. I've deleted it."

This feeling…_what_ is this feeling?

"Like I said, it was nothing but his sick idea of a joke."

I wasn't about to argue with him after he'd most probably saved my life – but some questions remained unanswered, something in the air needed to be cleared up.

His rough kiss last week, overwhelming me. And what happened right here, in this lounge room, three days ago…

It was like I was losing control.

Losing _myself_.

"I thought I was losing you…John." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper, he sighed and ran his knuckles between his eyebrows.

Then it hit me.

It wasn't that I thought I was losing him to Moriarty, so to speak.

It was the fact that I was losing myself to _him_.

"Sherlock…"

He turned to me, with an expression I couldn't quite put into words.

His lips tight, like trying to stop words from spilling out.

His frown, like trying to control the rampant race of thoughts inside his head.

His eyes, displaying a look somewhere between searching, and…_longing_.

That was all the response that mattered.

"I…"

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But somehow it _had_ to.

Because when Sherlock moved his face towards me, I shifted forward to meet it.

Because when one of his hands reached up to grab my shoulder, I felt warmth emanating from him.

Because when he kissed me –again and again- I could almost hear him say "John, you're alright…you're alright."

"_I'm so glad you're alright."_

Sherlock Holmes, my friend, the great, anti-social, almost-sociopathic detective…

"_John."_

…cared about me.

Trust him to have the most unconventional ways of showing it.

Not that I mind, actually.

I reached up and felt the side of his face with the palm of my hand – his skin felt as porcelain-like as it looks.

Oh.

_This…_

This felt…

And then he stopped, distancing his face from me.

"John, about what happened last week and three days ago…"

"Sherlock, it doesn't…"

"No, listen…it was me, it was all me. I thought I'd lost you, I felt I was almost losing you…and I had this urge, to do something…drastic – if you'd call it that."

"Right," I lowered my hand and watched him speak...closely.

"It was strange, it was like I had to make sure you were _real_."

His sentence slipped a sliver of comforting warmth in me.

That night after the incident with Moriarty at the pool, he was just as shaken as I was.

He felt what I felt. And didn't know how to deal with it.

Just like me.

Just like…

So many times I've heard him speak…but tonight, watching him actually speak like _this_.

I t was like…

"Because it felt to me like you were there, but you weren't really there. And no amount of thinking helped. I couldn't figure it out."

I needed a distraction.

No, I needed _him_.

Which was why, I wanted to do all those things to him three days ago…because I couldn't figure out what do with it myself.

"I think…" I finally started. "I perfectly understand everything you're trying to say."

Sherlock's eyes locked mine.

"So…do you…"

"Oh God, yes."

In an instant, I found myself wrapping my arms around him. Sherlock reciprocated, but slightly more careful, aware of my wounded left arm.

I needed this. No, I _wanted_ this.

Sherlock, the one thing I was sure of, all mine, all over me.

"John…," he breathed, his mouth hungry and making obscene noises around mine.

No more confusion. No more questions. No more _losing_ each other.

Sherlock kissed. I kissed back.

Sherlock touched. I touched back.

Sliding down, I found that mark on his neck. Tracing it with my lips, I mumbled a soft "Sorry."

He pulled my face towards him and mouthed a raw "No."

This thing…

A week ago, I didn't know what to do when it happened.

Three days ago, I had to have it and top it, show it that I knew what to do with it.

Instead I only hurt my friend.

"Sherlock…"

But tonight, everything was different.

I _want_ to lose my self.

I want to lose myself in him.

And…

"Thank you for finding me tonight."

A smile formed on my friend's face, and his embrace tightened.

_Let me show you…_

Ignoring the slight sting on my left arm, I reached around and pulled him down. This time I let myself fall on the couch, to have him on top of me.

…_more of me_…

He followed, but still shifting his weight away from my left side. His mouth refused to let go, I felt his skin's temperature rising, warmth permeating through me once again.

…_for you to find._

The next part was almost too easy, everything flew as sure as the ticking clock. Only the pace picked up, the movement grew frantic, and the noises increased.

Somewhere in the back of my head, the rational voice ordered me to find a more suitable – discreet – place to continue with this.

But stopping was completely…unacceptable.

My friend seem to read my mind, because in the midst of shoving my shirt aside, he made a manoeuvre away from the couch.

"My room or yours?"

"Not bothered."

I've never got to my room so fast in my life.

I remember hearing the door slammed behind us, and by the time I realised my shirt was literally falling off me, my friend had wrapped himself all around me like a hungry animal.

This thing between us…

I still couldn't quite put a word on it.

I felt my heart thundering against him, pulses racing under his skin as I struggled to rip his jacket and shirt off him. What's with him wearing so many bloody clothes?

But I knew one thing's for sure…

Whatever this thing was, I wanted to _devour_ it.

By the time we reached the bed, Sherlock was already _rubbing_ against me. This, heated – and delicious – friction was almost one level beyond overwhelming.

Then…

Sherlock was running his lips along my left arm…then my scar…

_Ah._

There.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I so wished he'd speed right up again.

And to my relief, he _did_.

Did you deduce that one too?

Part of me felt relieved that my friend's desires were almost an accurate reflection of his mind.

When Sherlock needs, Sherlock needs.

His brain's need of continuous thinking, investigating, deducing…was as demanding as his need for me now.

The effect it had on me was indescribable.

This…thing…

"Jo…" silencing him with a deep, unforgiving kiss, I rolled him over so I was on top of him.

_You've found me._

Pressing down hard, my friend's lanky figure writhed under me, his breaths hitching, his pulses pounding against mine.

_And now I've found a different side of you._

His shirt was gone, and I could see that perfect skin all sprawled out under me, traces of muscles - pulsating along with the frenetic beats of his heart underneath.

Oh, _God_.

Diving down, I found my self lapping my tongue into his neck again, tasting him, trying to search more of him.

The sucking followed, and the sudden gasp of his breath made me heat up inside even more.

"Oh!"

I didn't even notice when his hands started creeping up, but now I felt long, lean fingers, running across my neck, down to my chest, down to…

Like a delayed reaction, I moved my thighs to either side of him, forcing him between my legs.

Right. _There._

There it was again.

That amazing sensation of his protruding bones…his perfect hips, wriggling between my legs.

Three days ago, I didn't even notice how he would look, all I wanted to do was pin him down mercilessly.

But tonight, watching him from this angle was…

"John…"

…beautiful…and beyond.

Sherlock was panting now, my name divulged from his lips like a strangled groan.

I bent down, whispering to him, "What do you need, my Sherlock?"

Everything. I'd give you…_everything_.

"More. Of. You."

Like a flash of light, what happened next took us. There were sounds of zippers being pulled down, there were faint patting sounds of trousers thrown on the floor, but other than that, everything was just about us.

Just me and Sherlock.

_My_ Sherlock.

"Ah…"

Chest to chest, I had him still pinned underneath me, but this time, every _move_, every _friction_…was all there was to focus on.

Bare and exposed, slick and slippery – the heat between my legs worked along his, no matter how hard we pressed against each other it still didn't feel close enough.

Sherlock moaned against my shoulders, his arms still tight around me, seeking leverage – because I knew he wanted this to last just as long as I did.

Kissing him wasn't enough. Grabbing him wasn't enough. Thrusting against him wasn't enough. Although I knew holding on wouldn't hold off the inevitable, I wanted to savour every single second.

Just that bit more.

My hardness felt raw and hot now, so hot that I thought my insides was going to explode anytime – the pleasure just that bit overpowering, just teasing on the verge of pain.

"Owh…Sherlock!"

He found this from me too it seemed – it must've been written all over my face- and knew I bloody well enjoyed it because I could've sworn a slight grin formed on the side of his mouth.

Oh God, yes, right there…

His erection continued to rub against mine, faster each time – no, wait…

Not yet.

"John…"

I wanted to live here for a while.

"Oh…John…"

I wanted to absorb everything.

"John…John!"

How perfect you felt against me.

How amazing you sounded next to my ears, panting my name like a chant, again and again.

How our members were perfectly lined against each other…sliding along in the thick, wet heat…

Suddenly, Sherlock tensed under me.

"John, I'm going to…"

I remembered briefly looking into his widened eyes as the splash of his hot juices flooded that heavenly spot between us. He came moaning obscene, his neck arching back, spluttering my name in between.

And that did it for me.

"She…"

Unable to finish the word, I came, hard and fast, my own hot liquid meeting his.

_Oh._

That was…

I collapsed on top of him, for what must've been a long time, because out hot mess had turned sticky against our skins.

And the smell of protein filled up the room.

**_Today._**

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, sipping his black coffee and flicking through the newspaper. It was a very non-typical, yet, somewhat peaceful sight at this time in the morning.

"Morning."

Before I even started making myself tea, Sherlock's message tone beeped. He glanced at his phone with little to no interest, but then stood up all at once.

"That was Lestrade. We have a case."

Wait. "Give me a minute."

I knew there was no point saying that, because by the time I finished my sentence he'd already disappeared.

Sighing, I grabbed my coat, while still pondering about that cup of tea.

"You know where to find me."

I looked up, and Sherlock's head poked out from behind the door. He shot that typical impish smile at me, but not waiting for an answer.

"Of course."

_Right where you found me._

This was all supposed to happen.

Very much.


End file.
